Fending Off the Storm


“Almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of ‘psst’ that you usually can’t even hear because you’re in such a rush to or from something important you’ve tried to engineer. ” ~  David Foster Wallace

“Everything is determined, the beginning as well as the end, by forces over which we have no control. It is determined for the insect, as well as for the star. Human beings, vegetables, or cosmic dust, we all dance to a mysterious tune, intoned in the distance by an invisible piper.”  ~  Albert Einstein

Earlier this morning I was sitting here in the chair, laid back, hands behind my head, wondering why I was so nearly inclined to go back to sleep. It should have been obvious – I’ve been working five days straight. It was my default system, having commandeered the obvious, then replacing it with that lovely old maxim, “Shouldn’t you . . . ?”. No. Just no. Regardless of all the things I might be doing there comes a time, once in a while, randomly cast by fate, when just sitting still is the height of propriety. It’s even since then been tough to pull myself out of the sloth continuum. Here I sit, writing a short blog post. But that doesn’t mean I want to, does it? Well, yeh I do. It’s complicated; simply complicated. Sigh. Thinking too much.

Since the previous paragraph I have been outside to look at the sunrise. No yellow, orange, or red. No lavender, no mauve. But nice. The magpies rule the morning with some mildly raucous proclamations. I’m not sure what they are on about but something is obviously providing stimulation. Turtledoves as well. The air is fresh and cool. Simple stuff. No worries. It is . . . does anyone ever say “it is what it is” when something really cool or stimulating happens? Maybe that’s what the magpies are saying. Quoth the magpie, “whatever”. Now, moving forward, until the end of the day, until the cows come home, or the chickens go to roost. Today is massage day. Good! There are enough knots in this body to make up a gale force wind. That’s anywhere from 34-47 knots. Any more than that requires a storm warning. So I’ll be on the massage table fending off the storm. I’m hoping to be lazy for the bulk of the day. I’d like that. Sway like a willow in the wind, while keeping an eye on the breaking political news. There’s a lot of breaking news these days. They’d better knock that shit off. Something might get broken. Have you just noticed that when I get deeply tired I tend toward questionable wordplay? Whatever.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Giving Way to Astonishment


“Moments of magic will glow in the night
All fears of the forest are gone
But when the morning breaks they’re swept away by
golden drops of dawn, of changes.”  ~  Phil Ochs

“Do not give way to astonishment”  ~  Terence McKenna

“Do not give way to astonishment”. Wow. Granted – this is going to sound weird but bear with me – that phrase was not actually from Terence McKenna. It was, is, whatever, from one of his “fractal elves” in hyperspace. See, I told ya. But that phrase is with me, in my mind, this morning, and it arose as I perused the morning’s news, all about Trump. Pardon my language here, but I want to be as concise and incisive as possible in expressing where I stand in regards to the Great Pretender, Donald John Trump. It boils down to this: fuck him. There, I got that out, now I can move on, but first I must step outside the garden fence to have a look at the majestic sight of the Sacred Mountain occulting the morning Sun as it rises. All sounds so metaphorical and stuff, don’t it? I’m giggling here to think of it. Listen, it’s just the place that I live. But I really gotta step out for a few, then come back to this post. Bisy. Gon out. Bisy backson.

Cloudless sky this morning. Nice low-40s chill in the air. I’m just not running with the crowd these days. I am not too psyched about Summer’s arrival. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the beauty of the season. I do. Very much so. The thing about Summer that is bugging me so much is that Summer is the time of the season when you are supposed to get out and do stuff, after the harsh Winter doth wither away into history. And I don’t want to, k? I’m settled into this lengthy “hermit” phase in my life, and I don’t seem too keen on ending it right now. There are no real obligations that can make me get out of this room, except to go to work each day I am scheduled to work. For one thing there is the novel to write, and the beginnings already written please me greatly. I know that some writers say stuff like yer s’posta be ruthless and critical of your writing, to squeeze your best work out of the marrow of . . . ummm, I don’t really like where I was going with that sentence. It was conjuring the image of Ernest Hemingway, brow furrowed, hanging over an actual typewriter, a bead of sweat dripping down into his rum and coke, glancing off of the chunk of lime floating in the drink, and spreading out in a swirl. But I ain’t here to talk about process. Suffice it to say that Hemingway was the one who introduced me to the rhythm of lexicon and literary thrift. Years later it was David Foster Wallace who showed me you don’t really need the thrift part, because it can rein in a vast field of rhythm, and keep it from running free. Run-on sentences as well. But I wasn’t going to go into process, now was I? Whatever.

I’ve got a side job today, yard work for a friend. I need the sun and sweat. The money, not so much, but I will use the pay for something fun and/or nurturing. It’s been four days in a row, working at the hardware store over the holiday weekend, so I am distinctly tired. One more day won’t hurt. Besides, tomorrow is massage day. I need it. And the therapist is not only skilled and intuitive, she is also good company. I enjoy those visits, and the work we are doing there is slowly releasing years of layered tension and memory. Nice stuff. But for now I’d best give myself a swift metaphorical kick in the ass to get myself moving toward the day. Bueno bye.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.




The Writer’s Day Off


“Recounting the strange is like telling one’s dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream, but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can colour one’s entire day.” ~  Neil Gaiman

Tired after three days of hard work, I am exercising my prerogative here; choosing to post some old writing rather than try to wrangle my brain in any useful way. Hey, I may have posted this piece here before. Regardless, here it is. I wrote this piece right before going to work one day, after a couple of hours of cruising on bicycles with my friend, Cheryl. I could go on at length about Cheryl, but suffice it to say that she was one the most intelligent and sexiest women I have known. I’m sad that I lost touch with her.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Chances are my spirit still walks the woods along the Seven Mile River in rural Spencer, Massachusetts. I must chuckle at the image of some psychic sensitive seeing the apparition of this grinning stranger with a Florida tan wandering the trail along Browning Pond, stopping on occasion and muttering, “Oh, wow”. Or greeting some fellow creature, “Yo, dude!”. And the psychic sensitive is wondering … who is this spectral pilgrim and why doesn’t he look dead? That spirit still walks those woods and I am not dead. I am alive and well and living in a concrete cottage on Windley Key, in a place usually associated with Bogart, Buffet, Hemingway, pina coladas and hurricanes.

The Seven Mile River has become my inner sanctum, the place I go mentally when the stress is running high. There is a lot of that these days. This is South Florida, seven weeks after Hurricane Andrew.

I sob involuntarily as I write these words and my eyes become misted with tears. Stress is pandemic. There is no being flippant. You want to shout to the world, “Look! This is horrible!”. When disaster strikes this close to home you want to cry. Go ahead. It helps.

Meanwhile, the pilgrim is sitting on the rail of the bridge that allows Browning Pond to drain into the marsh where the Great Blue Herons nest. The river runs down from there and past St. Joseph’s Abbey, a Trappist monastery. The beavers have built a dam there at the foot of the hill on top of which rests the Abbey. Over the years this dam has caused the waters to rise in the valley where the herons nest high upon the dead pines which were killed by the burgeoning marsh.

The pilgrim is trancing out, thinking of Arthurian legend, and trying to summon the Lady of the Lake. He is cognizant to the fact that the Catholic Church holds deed to this land and he is wondering if the Spirit of Mary wanders this valley in her spare time.

It is late at night and a chill mist pervades the valley. The pilgrim finally sees what may be a vision of a lady in white. Contact is made. The man is beholding a vision, humming a Dire Straits tune, and – as James Taylor once wrote – “thinking about women and glasses of beer”. Far from the path of Andrew’s fury, he smiles. Then he rises and walks back to the house, the real world, and a cold beer.

The weird part of facing your mortality is that when the wind dies down you are left facing your life! Life looks awfully big at that point. The phrase “larger than life” becomes a paltry waste of breath. You sigh, raise the storm shutters, and get back to it. You whimper for a few days, before the electricity is restored when you finally get relief from the tropical thrust of the August sun. You trade stories with friends and neighbors. This is another weird thing: at first, everyone that you encounter feels like a friend. You are dazed and thankful. Your home was spared. The winds howled, the waters rose, and you spent several hours contemplating existence and whether or not your insurance policies were safely packed in plastic.

Monday morning comes and your world is still intact. Disappointment rides shotgun with joy. All of that fear, worry, and trembling was for naught? Meanwhile, thirty miles north, a million people have been slapped silly by the wrath of Nature’s own brillo-pad. Many have died. The sun is out. The day is calm in an eerie way. No birds sing.

The shock has set in. It will not depart for a long time. Andrew has spoken; “Get back to life”. We were all frightened children at that point, gazing at the brilliant blue sky and saying softly: “Oh, wow!”

My final human contact before Andrew showed its full force was a phone call from my best friend who lives on the banks of the Seven Mile River. The storm’s eye had hit landfall at Turkey Point. She told me that it was time to be scared. I laughed. I was already scared.

An airline ticket was safely packed in plastic and stuffed in my backpack. When the storm surge rolled through I would climb through the back window and swim for higher ground. I knew that I had to get to Massachusetts.

I never had to swim. But when she hung up the phone I knew two hours of sheer loneliness. Then I knew sleep. When I awoke and looked outside I knew it was okay. Three weeks later I knew that it was not okay.

The three weeks between Andrew and the Seven Mile River were hellish. We were, and still are, a little crazy. We were morbid, testy, and aggressive. We were damaged. And we were just not right.

The ride to Miami International Airport would be my road to sanctuary. That ride carried me through the “war zone”. That is what it looks like: a war zone. Only eyewitness contact can show you what happened in Andrew’s wake.

My breath took a hiatus. Tears came, as did a feeling of undeniable awe that left my lifelong, previous emotional output in the dust. I cried. I still cry sometimes.

The damage lessened, we arrived at MIA, and the plane took to flight. I hate to fly, hadn’t flown in seven years. Nature’s new version of South Dade County had squeezed me into near- catatonia and now I had to fly! It wasn’t right! I wasn’t right. That night on the banks of the Seven Mile River I found my first unblemished sleep in three weeks.

The pilgrim is again sitting on the bridge rail, regarding the night shrouded marsh. A beautiful woman is beside him on the rail. Florida is far away.

They talk. He is finally at ease. That afternoon they had been roaring through the Massachusetts countryside, singing along with the stereo, as the high-powered ’68 Mustang convertible carried them toward lunch. The day was beautiful. The tune on the stereo was Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life”.

The pilgrim is reminded – now, on the rail – of a story in which a man is sitting on a bridge with a beautiful and magical woman. She shows him the magic of the night then sends him home to his wife. She has taught him the lesson of trust.

He walks home whistling “Walk of Life”. He is thinking of the women that he loves. He goes home and, again, knows profound sleep. The ghost of John Lennon serenades him as he slides into a dream…”Imagine! All you need is love.”

Meanwhile, back in Florida, the day is calm. Autumn has brought its gracious cool nights. Seven weeks have passed and Andrew’s legacy is one of ruin. It is our minds that have been ravaged. The counseling work that psychologists, social workers, and bartenders will have to do is monumental in scope. We are all still a little crazy. It will take some time. It will take love to help us heal.

I missed my siesta while relating this tale. Tiredness has become a way of life these days. I know that I could feel much better but I feel fine. Meanwhile…

It is time for work. The pilgrim is home. The Seven Mile River will see him again. He will never forget what it is to feel like a frightened child. The frightened child is a kind of spiritual tattoo. He is smiling.

Questions and Coffee

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Rosie the cat

“Coffee is a lot more than just a drink; it’s something happening. Not as in hip, but like an event, a place to be, but not like a location, but like somewhere within yourself. It gives you time, but not actual hours or minutes, but a chance to be, like be yourself, and have a second cup”  ~  Gertrude Stein

“Coffee is a way of stealing time that should by rights belong to your older self.”  ~  Terry Pratchett

It slipped right by me, but now I know. The reason I chose quotes about coffee this morning is simply because the coffee ain’t workin’ as advertised. Who do you complain to about that? Maybe I need a Papal Red Bull? Hey, was that in bad taste? Sigh. There are so many questions in life. Some spiritual types say that it is all about questions, and not about answers. Some scientists say the same thing. Properly framing a question can spark the type of imagination and creativity that gets things done. Or creates new things. Just in passing I need to share with you the single questions that frames our president: WTF is wrong with that guy?! What is it anyway? What?! Yeh, I’ve perhaps been reading too much politics. The payoff is that all of this reading has given me the freedom to truly begin to feel the deep sadness born of the hatred and violence that is bubbling up in our nation. Bubbling up from where? I ain’t usin’ the swamp thing, k? Listen, I lived in Florida long enough to know what draining the swamp means. It means that you can then dredge up landfill with some big ol’ big boy Tonka front-end loaders and build really really big buildings on top. That’s what they did to build Mar a Lago. Not really. I made that up. I did some research. Mar a Lago was built back in the 1920s by the heir to the Post cereal company, which explain the flakes who party there now. But let’s move on from that. I must admit that my spirit is a tad low this morning. I know that the likely reason is that I was . . . ummmm, I worked all day yesterday. In retail. It’s a consciousness thing. My perhaps unwise acetic values are just a bit foreign to the consumer market. There is nothing wrong with the retail biz. It is just that I ain’t exactly geared for it. Although I do not even remotely believe that I live in a state of deprivation, I willingly admit that I deprive myself some really cool things on a daily basis. That is why I am considering a brief visit to and stay at the spa resort in Pagosa Springs. I’ve become a bit too couched – no, that’s not the right word – I’ve been inside the bubble reality that is Taos for much too long. Other than my visit to the Social Security office in Santa Fe, this time last year, I haven’t been out of this friggin bubble since my trip to Pensacola – what was it – four years ago? And that was because of a death in the family. Is this too personal for y’all? Hey, listen, my only point is that it is healthy to break routine once in a while. Perhaps I will go. Ya never know. Yeh, I need to sit down one of these days and crunch some numbers.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Liminal Projectiles and Oxford Commas


“There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.”  ~  Homer, The Odyssey 

Today’s opening photograph is an image of spring runoff on Taos mesa, back in 2013. It was quite a show, especially the sounds of a river running by the house, for however short a time. Music. Having lived within crawling distance from the ocean for so many years, I have a soul affinity for water. Love of the ocean is an unspeakable, translingual, whatever, sort of thing; it envelops the heart in a kind of primal, soulful song. Music, yes. A very odd thing happened last night. I was up and awake, for a brief time, from about 1:30 to 2:00 AM. Then back to sleep. I slept right through the iPad’s attempts to wake me. Hey! Did I just anthropomorphize a computer device? You betcha. Anyhow, I woke about 5 AM, in a state of wonder from this odd occurrence, and also with, in, whatever, a state of calm nourishment from the dreams that carried me through this tardiness. Tardy? Yes, I like to get up around 3 AM, read a fair amount of news, then get to writing these here blog posts. I would say that I needed the sleep, and that may be true, but what I really needed was the dreams. Dreams are essential to magick, and ever since my NDE in 1984 I have been all about magick. Many experiencers of NDEs report that they become a much more spiritual person after an NDE. Well, buddy . . . I became magickal. Needing the dreams last night stems from that conflict in my life that is playing out in part on the magickal level. Someone is throwing shade my way. Sometimes I bat it off aikido-like but the most fun approach is to take one of these magickal beanbag projectiles, surround it with love, then drop it on the floor at the other person’s feet. This all happens on a metaphorical, imaginal, liminal, level. Hey! I just used an Oxford comma there (the one after the word “liminal”). Them commas are all the rage in this new millennium. Words, as well as how you arrange them, or line them up, are magick: you spell a word and then you cast a spell in the way you use it. Spoken language informs the other person’s brain what you intend to say, be it direct, or covert, or simply the mutterings of an asshole. That asshole can be anyone from the guy in the checkout line at the corporate supermarket right on up to the president of these here United States. Just sayin. That . . . ummmm . . . guy is fomenting a potential war on liberals. The reporter who was brutally assaulted by a newly elected congressman up in Montana is a good soldier. The congressman is an asshole. Hey! I’m being rather crude, it seems. You betcha. It is a sign of the times. Goddess knows I can be urbane. I will not offer justification for my crudeness. The term is merely descriptive, and it is always best to choose the best words. On that note I’m a gonna mosey on off into the workday. It’s gonna be a quite busy retail experience for this cashier fella. I love my job.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Like a Phoenix

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“Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations of misery.”  ~  Aldous Huxley

Maybe there is too much to write about today. But that is only a speculation at a point and place in time where a sense of mystery would indeed suffice. An actual fact, one that would usually haunt me but not today, is that a strong bout with tinnitus is upon me this morning, and it is making it hard to hear my own thoughts. I am of the belief that some of my thoughts are not my own, and if that is true my ability to distinguish between my own and what Castaneda called a “foreign installation” serves to make these thoughts all one. That is where I actually am at the moment, all one in thought and all ears within some rampant cosmic oscillator. I am feeling weird so I don’t really mind writing in a somewhat weird manner. The truth of it is that my major train of thought this morning, stifled though it is like a some muffed out dream, indicates that an overload of  Right Wing destroyer myth enforcer information may have reached the tipping point. There is an undercurrent of not so stifled optimism running silent, running deep, and I’ll be danged if I don’t see it as a welcomed feeling. I’m not up to delving in to Chaos theory in any explanatory way, but despite all of my efforts at disbelief I have been sensing a rising coherence within the Right Wing warriors’ march into infamy. This humming numbing coherence is akin to the coherence that takes the boot stomping homogeneity of a platoon of soldiers who march in lock-step across a bridge and rattle the bolts and connectors loose by the very vibrations born of their march of enforced belonging. But I will not expand on this concept, not further, not today, except to say that enforced coherence is not the same critter as naturally manifesting coherence. Ouch. I just hurt my brain with that thought. Alas, my next four days of high-pressure retail performance are knocking at my door, calling me forth into the world outside my inner sanitary, which is within these walls. I’d admittedly prefer to stay home with the cat. But as I stride through this holiday weekend, performing my gainful employment retail cashier thingy, I will be accompanied by a new dream of mine: that of taking an overnight holiday up yonder, across the northern border, at Pagosa Springs, at the spa, hot springs resort there. You know, hang out in the warm water, smoke some legal weed, and  osmosis-ify a shirt load of toxins. My therapist highly (doh!) recommends it, although I came up with the dream. I almost balked at the idea of spending around $400 for a night out of town, but I am living a life, pretty much alone in the world, and I haven’t been out of town for much too long a time.. The enticement hovers over me like a phoenix.

Peace out, y’all. goof gloriously.

Fleeing the Groundhog


“If we listened to our intellect we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go in business because we’d be cynical: “It’s gonna go wrong.” Or “She’s going to hurt me.” Or,”I’ve had a couple of bad love affairs, so therefore . . .” Well, that’s nonsense. You’re going to miss life. You’ve got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.”  ~  Ray Bradbury

There’s kind of a “Groundhog’s Day” feel to the day; that kind of day that repeats itself over time with only minute changes. One thing I can note is that there is a turtledove cooing away, on and off. I don’t recall hearing that in a while. Likely my state of mind, that which produces this perception, is drawn from having an extremely busy day at work yesterday. No illusions, it was fun. There is something about productivity and teamwork that feeds the soul. Now, where the heavy allergy attack came from I don’t know. Run down, temporarily, from totally legitimate circumstances, with a tiredness that is fully explainable and eminently merited. I suspect we don’t give ourselves that much due. Not often anyway. We are too busy fleeing the groundhog, right? That little demon that waves his wand and rivets a life into a state of homeostasis, or as they say around these parts: “Work, work, it’s all we do, no?”. Well, ummmm – no, it’s not all we do. But I will not argue the point. We struggle to get ahead; but then so does a tailgater on the road. Remember: I or one of my small legion of moderate folks may be the one in front of you. Whatever, right? I guess. Beware the groundhog, my friend. You are never going to get ahead of me. I dare you to try. Just kidding, being ironic, whatever. Wink, wink. Or obscure? I’m not so sure of that last one. Now, moving forward, gonna go out to see the morning outside. Gon out. Bisy. Bisy backson.

“When you live alone, you can be sure that the person who squeezed the toothpaste tube in the middle wasn’t committing a hostile act.”  ~  Ellen Goodman

A peaceful morning is at hand. Except for the cat, who just woke, and was trying to hasten feeding time. I gave her a gentle STFU and she stopped whining. Coincidence, I’m sure. So, here’s my day. Laundry this morning, but only enough to get me through the next four days at work. Tis Memorial Day weekend and that is prime retail sales time. High pressure stuff. The stuff of retail legend. Then psychotherapy at noon. I’ve noted before that the therapy is for the PTSD. The depression I manage quite nicely. My major malfunction with PTSD is that in the course of any given day it gets triggered numerous times, to a small degree. I have to cope with elevated levels of adrenaline, throughout most of the day. No whining. Not from me. I love a mystery, and this is one of them, but I still can’t for the life of me comprehend it in any kind of descriptive manner. It is a wild and chaotic manifestation. Were it not for the sometimes extreme discomfort I would wonder at it’s purpose. But sometimes disorder has no purpose, only a function. And on that note . . .

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Fate and Retail

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“A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley…He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!”   ~  J. K. Rowling

WordPress site was down this morning so I could not post. Sorry. Fate? I don’t know, but I have been contemplating Fate lately. Something I need to learn. Also been contemplating retail business. Go figure. Lunch hour! Back to work. Tally ho!

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Surprise Within the Stripes


“It looked as though the leaves of the autumn forest had taken flight, and were pouring down the valley like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, all the leaves of the hardwoods from here to Hudson’s Bay. It was as if the season’s colors were draining away like lifeblood, as if the year were molting and shedding. The year was rolling down, and a vital curve had been reached, the tilt that gives way to headlong rush. And when the monarch butterflies had passed and were gone, the skies were vacant, the air poised. The dark night into which the year was plunging was not a sleep but an awakening, a new and necessary austerity, the sparer climate for which I longed. The shed trees were brittle and still, the creek light and cold, and my spirit holding its breath.”  ~  Annie Dillard

Weird. I’ve had several spells of Cosmic peace this morning, of oneness, whatever, and the Sun ain’t even up yet. I must be caught up on my rest, reckon? The oneness, the Cosmic peace, is not like the more mundane variety, which to me is a temporary respite from worries, anxiety, and stuff. The Cosmic type is coming within a breath of Eternity. And, no, I did not go to Colorado to visit the marijuana dispensary yesterday. I ain’t been puffin, k? So don’t even try it dude. Truth is I’m kinda dopey on the natch, at times. Now, first light is creeping in. Third cup of coffee, poured and waiting, vapors enticing; cat sacked out up on the bed, Oh my, she sure does have a pretty coat. Hey, something I noticed for the first time in all of my life – I’d always assumed that a cat’s stripes were composed of alternating patches of uniformly colored hairs. For some reason (I think it was just the light catching at a certain angle) I found myself examining a single hair, only to have it dawn on me that there are stripes are within a single hair. The stripe pattern runs across all of the fur. It’s hard to put words to it, but I am totally amazed by this discovery. Still, a cat’s stripes are going to be there whether or not I am around to look at them. The true news here is that my childhood curiosity and sense of wonder remains intact through the years. Admittedly, my wow threshold is rather low. That has a lot to do with it, me thinks.

I don’t remember ever seeing clouds as being mauve in color, but they were this morning. It passed within minutes, but the hue was truly there. Yet another point of wonder. There is a uniform layer of clouds overhead. I could see a straight line break in the clouds up to the northwest. Birdsongs are sweet and perky. I can’t rightly say why I am so on about curiosity this morning but I suspect that it is because I have been reveling in the investigative reporting being done in the political scandals that are bubbling up like noxious goo in our nation’s capitol. These gals and guys are heroes. And their approach to discovery is clearly developed to the level of science. I admire them all greatly. Rachel Maddow is rightly a leader in the pack, but I have a thing for Katy Tur. Just sayin.

I came across the opening quote while on my usual quote search this morning. Annie Dillard. The woman blows me away. Although a little more flamboyant, she reminds me of Barbara Kingsolver in many ways. Nature writing. Fact is I never sat down to even begin a list of my favorite writers. There are many more than I can even think of at any given time. Here’s the thing. I’ve been totally blown away by the Starz Network’s adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s brilliant New York Times bestselling novel, American Gods. I’m paying eight bucks a month to watch it. No money was ever better spent. Never. Neil’s writing blows me away. He is definitely a fantasy writer, and I like reading fantasy. Heck, I’m even pretty good at living it. But Neil writes without hanging the ‘big picture’ out where everyone can see it. David Foster Wallace did that as well. Textural passages ripe with factual, seemingly mundane details reveal the big picture only in glimpses. Ya gotta do the work. But the payoff is grand. Soooo, yesterday I sought to do what anyone might do about a favorite artist. Starz Network did a documentary about Neil. I decided I might like to learn more about the man, so I started watching it. “Started” being the operative word here. It didn’t resonate with me. All I need to know about the man is revealed through his writing. That’s the point. Look at it this way – Umberto Eco was a chain-smoker. What’s that got to do with The Name of the Rose? Sigh. I must get to my working day. Bueno bye.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Wild Horses in Dreamtime


How long have I been sleeping?
How long have I been drifting alone through the night?
How long have I been running for that morning flight?
Through the whispered promises and the changing light  ~  Jackson Browne, Late for the Sky

“Reality is always plural and mutable.”  ~  Robert Anton Wilson

“We look for the Secret – the Philosopher’s Stone, the Elixir of the Wise, Supreme Enlightenment, ‘God’ or whatever…and all the time it is carrying us about…It is the human nervous system itself.”   ~  Robert Anton Wilson

Yes, I am late, considering that my morning reflections are up and running, while I am often down and sitting still, by 7 AM. Ponder that for a few moments, then  . . . ummmm, what’s it to ya? I first comprehended the phrase “what’s it to ya?”, if indeed I had ever heard it at all before that, in my 7th grade English class. We students were all working on the day’s lesson when one student went up to Ms. Riddle’s desk, interrupting whatever she was on about, to ask a question. She turned, smile on her face, and said “What’s it to ya?”. I don’t recall if she ever answered the question because that was answer enough for me. Though somewhat dour in temperament, I did find humor in sarcasm. To this day, however, I truly believe that she had indeed answered the question in the most truthful way. As for the lateness, I slept a very long time: 9.5 hours. I have been aspiring to that for weeks now. The cool part, beyond the urgent need for rest, is that I was deep into Dreamtime, and not just dreaming; and I suspect there were horses there; and Cougar. You can go back and edit Dreamtime to some extent, because it is a timeless realm, and our will and intentions are indeed more powerful than you can imagine. That’s another thing that has been lacking to a troublesome degree in my life: magick. I suspect that the reason for this lack has been that I have been in a power struggle with someone who, with or without foreknowledge, has been shoveling some baneful shit my way, magickally speaking that is, and I have nearly depleted myself through self-defense, which has been both necessary and exhausting, especially considering that it has taken much effort to maintain a merely defensive position, and yes, I slipped a few times. Sometimes it is necessary to ‘slap’ someone who needs slappin, whether they know it or not, and that goes for either/both the slappin and the need. The unspoken conflict may go on regardless, but I doubt it. But back to the sleep thingy, I was awakened by Rosie the cat, who had taken to leaping repeatedly over my head. I barked at her a few times, nevertheless she persisted. Finally she somehow turned on my printer and set it to perform some task or other, so I had to get up to turn it off. The kicker here is that it was still 45 minutes before her usual feeding to, which is a mostly prompt event, at a fixed time. So I called her a bad name and made some coffee before too long. Which brings me to this moment. I have forgiven the cat. The coffee is long gone. And here I sit contemplating driving up to Colorado to have a first look at a marijuana dispensary. It’s only an hour’s drive. I could have lunch in San Luis, which is a very sweet old town; the oldest in Colorado. Yeh. And it is also a gorgeous drive. And you can sometimes see wild horses along the way. Hmmmmm . . . bueno bye.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.